


Miracles Are Just Second Chances

by TheSilverQueen



Category: A Royal Affair (2012), Hannibal Extended Universe - Fandom, Hysteria (2011)
Genre: #RareMeat, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst with a Happy Ending, Crossover Pairings, Don't copy to another site, Falling In Love, Hannibal Extended Universe, M/M, Mating Bites, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Protective!Johann, Scenting, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:14:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26200978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSilverQueen/pseuds/TheSilverQueen
Summary: At the last minute, Johann Struensee is spared death - but instead, he is sold into Service, where alphas, betas, and omegas serve out contracts to pay off debts or prison sentences. Unfortunately, most customers are wary about buying an alpha, and so Johann languishes in prison for weeks and weeks.That is, until an enterprising young omega doctor named Mortimer Granville decides to take a chance on Johann.
Relationships: Mortimer Granville/Johann Struensee
Comments: 23
Kudos: 89
Collections: MonthlyRareMeat





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [victorine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/victorine/gifts).



> This is my contribution to [#RareMeat Johann Week!](https://twitter.com/RareMeat_/status/1296971901487722496)
> 
> This is also a gift to my darling Victorine, who lets me talk her ear off day and night whenever the muse strikes me (which is uh a lot). I hope you like my two doctors falling in love <3

Johann Struensee is not a fool. He is aware that he has been outmaneuvered and forced into a corner, and that soon his enemies will fully close in to drag him into the streets, parade their victory, and cheer over his beheaded corpse. There is still the chance, of course, that the king could change his mind – could issue him a pardon or sentence him to exile – but the hope is a faintly flickering candle that dims and shrinks with each passing minute that he spends cooped up in a dark, dank prison, collared and chained and masked.

That hope dies a final death when he hears the many echoing thuds of footsteps towards his cell and the door creaks open to reveal not a messenger of the king, but the executioner in a black hood and a priest in an equally black cossack.

“Up on your feet!” the guard barks. “Time for your final prayers.”

Johann has no need for prayers – if the Lord Almighty is going to judge him for trying to bring joy to his dear Caroline and much needed reforms to this country, then so be it. Yet he kneels and lets the priest say their words anyways, because actions can speak so much more loudly than words, and he’d rather go to his grave having people spread the word that he still sought God’s grace in his last moments. 

Still, even the verbose priest can only say so much. As soon as the priest does the sign of the cross, inclines his head, and steps away, the guards swam in and seize Johann. They lift him clear to his feet and drag him away, barely allowing him the time to find his own feet so that he stumbles on the hard stone. 

The prison he has been housed in is a fair distance away from the field where executions take place, and so the guards load Johann into a carriage. It is black, lined with red, like a harbinger of what is to come, so Johann takes a deep breath and fixes his eyes upon the wall.

They execute Brandt first, flailing and stumbling. Johann does not watch, but he hears the sudden silence followed by the roar of the crowd. It makes his heart race.

The guards come for him next, yanking him out of the carriage. They don’t even give him a moment to register his surroundings before he is being pulled towards the place where he will die, the crowd jeering and chanting at the side. One person even jumps forward, shoving Johann so hard he would have fallen if not for the guards, but after another guard comes forward to pull the person back, Johann is forced to continue on his journey to the executioner. 

The stairs to the platform are wet with blood, dark red and shining. Johann looks up and sees the origin, a large woven basket, and swallows. It’s not hard to realize the basket must contain.

Slowly, step by step, Johann walks to his doom, trying to remain calm. It’s a calm that abruptly leaves when, at the top, he slips on a patch of blood, falling heavily to his side. The fall drives the breath from him, even if it makes the crowd cheer, and the two guards rush up the stairs to pull him to his feet and towards the executioner’s block. Once there, they force him to his knees, restraining his arms, and Johann is forced to look down into the basket that contains a sight more horrible than anything Johann has seen as a doctor.

So he closes his eyes, and thinks of Caroline, of her smile and her voice, and tries to breathe.

The crowd goes silent. Johann hears the swish of cloth as the executioner raises the axe, and he holds his breath and prays it will be swift and only take one blow. He’s seen times where it takes more than one, and it’s not a fate he hopes to suffer himself.

The executioner swings down the axe – 

Johann squeezes his eyes tight – 

And a _commotion_ erupts in the crowd, loud yells and horses whinnying and pounding footsteps, which Johann realizes only after a moment that he is hearing with his own ears on his own head still attached to his own body. The executioner has landed the axe with a thud on the platform beside the block, and Johann strains his head to see that three horses have arrived, two bearing the standard of the king, and one standing upright in the saddle waving a rolled up piece of parchment and yelling. His words can’t be heard over the crowd, but there’s only one reason for the messenger to arrive bearing that standard.

The guards know it too and one of them urges the executioner onwards, but before he can even take a step towards his axe, the messenger finally manages to spur his horse through the crowds right up to the platform.

“I have a pardon from the king!” the messenger yells, loud and clear. “Johann Struensee is not to die today!”

Boos and groans echo from the crowd, but the guards aren’t stupid enough to disobey a direct order from the king. Two bend down to release his arms, pulling him upright yet keeping him close to hear whatever the king has decided his sentence should be instead.

The messenger unrolls the thick roll of parchment and continues, “By order of His Majesty King Christian VII, Johann Struensee is released from the penalty of death by beheading, out of the king’s gracious mercy and affection for the friendship the doctor has known the royal family. However, the king also acknowledges that a grave crime against the crown has been committed. For the crime of lèse-majesté, Johann Struensee is sentenced to Service.”

The crowd goes completely silent, until all Johann can hear is the frantic thudding on his own heart. He had, honestly, been hoping for a sentence of exile; he could have graciously departed this country and found a new court to ply his skills. 

Service is another fate entirely. It’s just another name for slavery, really; people – usually omegas and betas – sold into Service to pay off a debt, sent to the auction block to be traded like cattle and put to whatever work their new owners might want, no matter what that work is . . . or whether the work kills them before the debt is paid. Alphas, however, are rarely sentenced or sold into Service, because what self-respecting alpha head of a family would allow another alpha into their home, sniffing at the wives and husbands, distracting their daughters and sons. And that doesn’t even account for the times when alphas go feral, a state omegas and betas rarely go into.

It’s a reprieve of death, Johann knows, as he is dragged off the platform. But if no one purchases him, he’ll spend the rest of his life at the auction block or in the auction pens, guaranteed to a slow decline.

Still, the hope that Johann thought died in the cells has been revived now by the king’s mercy. He won’t let it die again so easily. Perhaps there is some family that wants an alpha laborer. Perhaps there is some lord in needs of a muscled guard. Perhaps someone else will show him some mercy.

It’s all he can hope for now.

* * *

The first week that Johann spends in Service is born easily. He is forced to part with his fine clothes and boots, of course, because they are filthy and bloodstained, but he is given a bath and new clothing, as the whole point is to be appealing and fetch a good price at the auction block. He’s even given his own separate cell, as no self-respecting auctioneer would put valuable omegas and betas within reach of a possibly feral alpha and there are no other alphas in the whole area. He isn’t purchased during his first auction, but that isn’t surprising and auctions are held every week, so there is always another chance.

The second week is a little less easily born, if only because the food is awful and inadequate, but once again he is given a short bath before auction. Unfortunately, the customers once again give him a wide berth, ignoring him in favor of weeping omegas and cowering betas.

Weeks three, four, and five pass in similar fashion, and the guards ignore Johann’s request for paper and pen to write to the king and beg a reprieve. They also refuse to answer his questions regarding the fate of his dear Caroline or the children.

By week six, the rations Johann is provided dwindles to almost nothing, likely because the auctioneers realize that it is unlikely he will sell. After all, he is alpha – the alpha, in fact, who cuckolded a king.

Johann begins to lost track of time, after that. His stomach is cramping and angry, his head spins, and his vision blurs whenever he moves. Usually he tracks time by the weekly auctions, but sometimes he sees the shuffling chain of omegas and betas going past his cell on their way to auction and the guards do not come for Johann to add him to the line. The small flicker of hope begins to die yet again, and this time Johann cannot add kindling to the fire with the name of King Christian.

When the guards finally do come for Johann again, he is too weak to stand, let alone demand answers or ask questions, and so he cannot protest as they lock heavy chains around his ankles and wrists, or when they slip a thick rough collar onto his neck, or when they attach a leather mask on the lower half of his face, preventing him from biting but also from breathing properly. He is unceremoniously loaded into a wooden crate, packed like sardines with other seemingly undesirable or unsellable properties, and the cart takes a winding, bumpy road until it reaches a dock. 

Generally, those sold into Service are kept in the same country or a similar place, so that once their sentence is over they can return home, but it is not guaranteed. If a master decides on a whim to buy a pretty omega to service his bed, that master can go anywhere with said omega.

They begin to load the crate onto the ship, the guards exchanging a thick pouch of money with a collection of papers, and this is when Johann understands that he is being sold for auction elsewhere, and his hope dwindles to the faintest, smallest ember.

After all, anything can happen at sea, and here Johann is nothing but chattel. If he dies, no one will cry.

Johann closes his eyes, and breathes, and prays.

* * *

After a long, frankly horrifying journey at sea, the ship carrying Johann comes to rest on English shores. It has been a long time since Johann practiced the English tongue, and so most of the things said around or near him make little sense, but he manages to understand the most auction houses are refusing to buy him. Johann has heard that the English style of Service is different; now he sees it in person, as even though many auction houses in Denmark might be reluctant, more would be willing to take the gamble. 

Here, in England, Johann is the last person sold, and to an absurdly low price. He doesn’t even get a bath this time before he’s pushed onto the auction block.

The same pattern repeats itself here: most customers and families avoid him, for he has the disadvantage of being both foreign and alpha. Most lords who could afford separate lodging to protect their wives and children from an alpha do not wish to buy a dirty, foreign one, and most laborers who could use the benefit of alpha strength do not wish to buy an alpha laborer. The betas and omegas go quickly, and Johann languishes.

His cell in England is even more cramped. He has dirty straw for a bed, a hole for a toilet, and a tiny window the size of a telescope. The guards don’t even remove his mask, probably for fear that he will bite.

Time begins to blur again. The auctions appear to happen almost at random; certainly they are not weekly as in Denmark, and so Johann cannot use them to track time. He also cannot gauge time by meals, as the guards put more food towards fattening up the omegas and betas than the sole gaunt alpha in their care. If he speaks or makes a sound, he is beaten, until Johann is reduced to lying curled in a ball, coldness from the chains seeping in his bones, staring into nothingness. His days at court, with Caroline, with respect and power and as much food as he wanted, seem like a dream. 

Sometimes he wonders if it was all a dream.

* * *

The guards finally give Johann a bath after a few auctions. Personally, he suspects that it is because the auction house had had an influx of prisoners and there was already water, but either way, he does not protest. They do not remove his chains or his mask and the hot water stings as it touches skin rubbed raw by chains, but at least he smells less like urine and dirt. He is even given different clothes, albeit those that are dirty and hang off his emaciated body.

After the bath, instead of being brought back to his cell, the guards chain him against the wall and begin to gather the new prisoners. Most are omegas, probably sold by their parents or husbands or lords to pay off a debt, and they flock together and whimper and cry, cowering against the wall as the guards yell and corral them like cattle. Johann is kept separate from them, chained at the end of a line of betas instead, and then they are all marched onto the auction square.

In Denmark, there had been a raised platform, with prisoners loaded up in pairs or ones to be loudly announced and bid upon. Here, in England, there is a little dirt square, with omegas herded into large pens like chickens, betas chained in long lines, and Johann in his own little area, fastened to a post like a hobbled horse and left to squint in the sunlight.

After a while, he just closes his eyes and dozes, because almost all of the customers are ignoring him, and he knows now to take what little enjoyment he can while he’s not in his cramped little cell.

He takes in the lovely sounds of the outside: horses whinnying, and people chatting, and birds chirping. He takes in the wonderful smells of the outside: fresh bread, and fresh straw, and fragrant soap. He enjoys the feel of wind on his skin and sun on his hair, and memorizes it to carry through the long, cold, dark nights.

He is so focused on doing this, in fact, that he doesn’t hear the sound of two people approaching him until the wind changes direction and blows the sweet scent of an omega right into his nose.

Johann opens his eyes, confused, and finds himself staring right at the face of an omega.

He’s well-dressed, with a thick black coat, muted purple cravat, and nice boots. His hair spills out from underneath his top hat in little rogue groups of curls. He has pink cheeks from the wind and bright blue eyes, and he smells like fresh mint and ripe apples and honey roasted meat, an absolutely lovely banquet that Johann wants to lick every single plate of. And perhaps roll in for good measure. 

Alpha instincts, and all that.

The omega looks him up and down, but in a very practical, measuring way. Some of the few customers who had looked at Johann had mostly did so with a clear focus on his nether regions, as if deciding whether he was worth buying as a breeder, but this omega looks at Johann differently. Johann would say it was almost clinical, except of course that Johann looks nothing like the clinical picture of health and this is not a clinic.

“Mortimer! Goodness, this is where you wandered off to.”

A woman bustles up to the omega, dressed in a furred grey skirt and pinstripe shirt. When she gets closer, Johann can smell her – muted and earthy – and knows her for a beta. It explains the easy way the omega allows their arms to be linked, given that omegas are generally wary of being touched by alphas those they don’t know.

The woman looks him up and down too, but it’s not the same way as the omega. Hers is more rushed, and produces a far less agreeable result. “He looks horrid,” the woman declares. “I thought you were looking for a _useful_ assistant, Mortimer, he looks like he’d fall off during a stiff breeze.”

“He’s an alpha. They’re stronger than you think.”

“And more prone to feral outbursts.”

“All people are capable of violent outbursts,” the omega says, a meaningful tone in her voice. “And an alpha might be useful. Husbands of my clients might think twice, if they knew he was watching them.”

“Or they might be even angrier, knowing an unmated alpha was around,” the woman points out. She tugs on his arm, very gently. “Come on, there’s a very nice beta I saw. Or an omega, if you’d prefer that.”

The omega resists her pull. His eyes sweep up Johann’s chest, lingering on the areas where his ribs are visible, and then travel up to his face. When he looks into Johann’s eyes, Johann feels like the omega is peering into the depths of his soul, assessing his life and deciding his future, like some kind of angel of judgment in the flesh.

Whatever the omega sees, it makes him nod to himself. “No, I think I want him,” he says thoughtfully.

The woman sighs. She doesn’t seem truly angry, more saddened and depressed, and Johann wanders if perhaps she has no vendetta against alphas but is merely more practical about why unmated omegas and alphas are usually kept separate. “Mortimer,” she says gently, “it’d take a miracle to reform that alpha into something useful for you and your practice. I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“And I,” the omega says, unyielding as stone, “think that miracles are just second chances. Even if they are heavenly ones.” He turns and waves a hand, catching the attention of the nearest auctioneer. “Excuse me, I’ll take this one!”

* * *

After a brief argument in which the omega tries to be nice before the woman stomps all over the auctioneer, the papers are signed, the keys are handed over, and the omega fishes out a money pouch and drops a small amount of coins. And just like that, Johann is sold, and hustled into a small carriage to go with his new owner.

It’s a short trip to wherever they live, and in no time at all, Johann is disembarking from a carriage to step into a new life. The woman casts a doubtful look at Johann but, after a brief conversation in a hushed voice, presses a kiss to the omega’s cheek and bustles off, leaving Johann with the dawning realization that this omega lives _alone_ and still chose to purchase an unmated – and ungelded – alpha. 

He wants to ask if the omega has any proper survival instincts, but the omega pulls him inside first.

The omega settles him on a table but does not remove his chains, in a surprisingly smart decision. Not that Johann would have hurt this omega, of course, but others might have, and even weak and emaciated, Johann is taller and strong enough to startle and probably overtake this omega. Especially after the omega removes about four layers of coats, revealing him to be a slender slip of a thing in a fluffy white shirt. He’s like a colt on the way to adulthood, still filling out.

“Now, I apologize for not removing these restraints, but I was told quite sternly to let you adjust for a day or two,” the omega says, settling on a couch to look at Johann with bright eyes. “I suppose it’s sometimes disorienting, and if you do try and escape and are caught, you’ll be put to death, so I’d rather not risk it.”

Johann swallows. He hadn’t known that.

The omega’s eyes are very knowing as he nods. “Just something I thought you might like to know. But I can assure you that you’ll be very comfortable here. I will provide food, clothing, and lodging, and in return, I am looking for minor assistance in packing equipment and monitoring the clinic. Nothing too major, but sometimes my clients get a bit rowdy – and sometimes, their husbands or alphas do too,” he says with a sigh. “Oh, and I suppose I should take off that mask – you don’t seem like the biting type.”

The omega digs through the pile of keys provided by the auctioneers. The first few he tries are clearly incorrect, but on the third one, there’s the tiniest click by Johann’s ear, and the omega beams in pleasure as he pulls the mask away.

Johann breathes in the air, unhindered by the foul, sweaty, dirty mask and can’t help his smile.

“That’s much better, isn’t it?” the omega says kindly, as if talking to a stray dog. “I’ll heat up some food for you, you look like you could use all the meat you could get.”

Johann hasn’t had meat for weeks. His stomach growls, unbidden and loudly, and Johann has to look at the floor. It’s shameful, really, even if he can’t quite form the words to explain himself. Not that it matters, of course; he is in Service, and bound to this omega until one of them dies.

“Oh,” the omega says, as an afterthought halfway out of the room, “and by the way, since I never introduced myself: my name is Mortimer Granville. I’m a doctor.”

And, well. Johann has to laugh at that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Next up: Johann & Mortimer learn how to cohabit and trade medical knowledge.
> 
> Also I 1000% did not write at least 500 words of Johann’s near-miss execution with the wrong method of execution and then go and watch the scene for accuracy and cry for an hour, no I did not.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the scene that inspired this whole fic lol.

Mortimer had been warned by the auctioneers that this alpha was foreign-born, and spared the executioner’s axe by a last minute pardon by the king. Therefore, it is not surprising to him that the alpha is wary and defensive, even though he makes no attempt to run or harm Mortimer. It also explains his grasp, tentative and basic that it is, of English; if the kingdom did trade with England, as the alpha’s presence in an English market proves, then anyone who would be high enough that to earn a king’s favor and pardon possibly learned some English at some point. 

It does not explain the alpha’s laughing fit when Mortimer introduces himself, but the alpha does sober quickly, and he accepts his chains with a quiet, dignified grace.

Mortimer has no idea what the alpha has been eating, but the prominent ribs and shuffling gait tell him a lot, and he also knows better than to suddenly give a starving man access to a huge quantity of rich food. Especially an alpha, seeing as they typically run bigger and stronger than betas or omegas, and therefore generally need to consume more food to maintain their strength. So Mortimer begins making a stew, hearty but simple, and starts asking basic questions of the alpha.

“May I ask what’s your name?”

The alpha scratches his chin, narrowly avoiding clipping his own face with his chains, and then he says, low and halting, “Do I need one?”

Mortimer shrugs. “I won’t call you _slave_. And anyone high enough in the court to earn a king’s pardon surely had a lineage and a name.”

“Perhaps I tricked this king.”

“Or perhaps you cuckolded him, but that’s no business of mine,” Mortimer tells him. He checks his stew and finds it adequate but a little thick; he moves to the sink to get some more water. He can at least partake of the same stew, as a gesture of goodwill. “If you don’t want to tell me your name, that’s fine, but I would like to have a name to address you, in any case.”

The alpha’s eyes drift half closed and he sways a little, like he’s falling asleep. Mortimer is almost alarmed until he sees the alpha’s chest expanding and falling, and realizes that he must be scenting. It’s an easy way for an alpha to learn information about a new place.

The alpha tilts his head. Then he opens his eyes and says, “And why would you be addressing me? Surely it would be better for someone like me to remain . . . out of sight.”

Mortimer tastes the soup, adds some salt, and stirs it again. It’s bubbling and lovely, almost ready. “If that is what you wish,” he replies. “It would be nice to have someone to assist me in moving equipment, whenever I needed to do product demonstrations or rearrange the office for my patients.”

“But that is not what you hoped for.”

“You were watching me as I spoke to Charlotte,” Mortimer notes. “Surely you overheard that I was thinking of procuring the services of someone to handle rowdy patients.”

“Or their alphas and husbands,” the alpha remarks, proving that he was indeed listening. “What services do you provide, Dr. Granville, that would cause such a stir in your patients or their family members?”

There is no judgement in the alpha’s voice. Usually alphas react with derision to the idea of an omega doctor, yet this seems not to bother this alpha at all. Instead, if Mortimer was pressed to answer, he might say that this alpha seems _playful_ , twisting phrases and carefully choosing words like a courtier dancing along the whims of the court. He seems far more curious than dismissive, and so Mortimer answers him honestly as he ladles steaming soup into two large bowls.

“I specialize in the treatment of hysteria. I patented a device, in fact, to assist in this, and I’m happy to say that my practice keeps growing.”

The alpha blinks at Mortimer as he sets the soup down. He appears genuinely startled for the first time, shoulders relaxing, mouth falling slightly open.

“What sort of device?”

“Well, we’ve been calling it a sort of – electric massager. Generally,” Mortimer explains, “practitioners in my field would induce paroxysmal convulsions through manual massage, but I have a great deal of patients and, well, sometimes it takes a great deal of effort, and the muscles in the hand are as prone to cramping and soreness as any muscle, so – ”

“Internal massage?” the alpha echoes, a tinge of disgust in his voice.

Mortimer nearly drops his soup bowl. He does drop his spoon, and has to hastily rummage on the floor to retrieve it. When he sits in his chair, he glares at the alpha. “Heavens no! What sort of heathen do you take me for? It is external massage, conducted under decent cover. I am an omega; I am not so foolish as to risk my livelihood or my patients’ reputation by straying behind the boundaries of what is necessary for the treatment of – ”

The alpha leans back, holding up his hands, and says, “Peace, Dr. Granville. Forgive me; I am not familiar with this treatment. I concede that the device sounds most useful for your practice.”

He still sounds more like he’s humoring Mortimer than truly repentant, but it’s a step better than most alphas, and certainly better than most of Mortimer’s fellow doctors. Mortimer has learned to take what little victories he can where he can.

Mortimer inclines his head. “I take my oath to protect my patients seriously,” is all he says.

The alpha turns his attention to eating, then. He does so slowly, at first, since the chains prevent him from separating his hands, but his measured, slow pace becomes a little quicker and his sips a little deeper once the soup really begins to warm his belly. Mortimer has stop himself from reprimanding the alpha and urging him to eat slower, for the alpha is truly eating at the proper pace for the reintroduction of food after a long time without. It makes him wonder exact what this alpha did at court; surely no noble with the king’s favor would know famine, or if he did, know what to do once confronted with food again. 

Dinner is finished in due course, with the alpha taking so long to finish that Mortimer is able to eat two bowls and begin the washing up. 

To his surprise, the alpha dutifully hands over his bowl and spoon, not asking for more.

“I was not a high-born,” the alpha says meaningfully, as if he knows exactly the sort of questions racing around Mortimer’s mind. “And the land was not always kind to us. Sometimes we had feasts. Other times, we had gruel and water, and dreamed of a good, hot meal.”

“I hope it was sufficient,” Mortimer says.

“Very much so. I thank you.” The alpha tilts his head when he realizes it is Mortimer wiping down the table and rinsing the dishes. “Do you have no servants to attend to you?”

Mortimer shrugs. “I was not high-born either,” he explains. “And my recent influx of wealth from my patent is just that – recent. I see no reason to be gaudy and lavish when tomorrow another patent might come that would leave me destitute.”

For some reason, that amuses the alpha greatly. He laughs under his breath, leaning back in his chair, and looks about the room again, as if noting the lack of fine china or embroidered finery. “And you have no wife nor alpha?”

“I suppose you could say that I am married to my practice,” Mortimer says lightly.

“A noble union,” the alpha remarks. Respect colors his voice, and he continues, “To devote oneself to the treatment of others is admirable.”

“Is it?” Mortimer replies coyly. “And here I thought I was embarking on a quest of knowledge, like the knights of old, seeking the holy grail that cures all ailments and recording my knowledge for all those who follow in my wake.”

“Was your patent not enough of a holy grail for you?”

“If I could permanently cure hysteria,” Mortimer says dryly, “I believe that I would be toiling at the great courts at the pleasure of His Royal Majesty, and not in a dingy office.”

The alpha inclines his head, conceding the point. He leans forward then, resting his hands on his knees, and asks, “So you would have to . . . watch over this office, and ensure that no patients let their excitement or emotions get the best of them?”

“Just so. Or perhaps escort out an . . . aggravated alpha or husband, when reason fails. Or move equipment, should it prove to beyond my strength. Perhaps even notify me when patients arrive, if you are capable of reading and writing. Are you learned in your letters?”

“Never fear, I can read the long winded titles and names of your patients,” the alpha says dryly. “I suppose acting as a chaperon is well within my capabilities.”

Mortimer cocks an eyebrow at him. “I’m glad you are so overjoyed to accept your responsibilities,” he replies, just as dryly, and is gratified to see a flash of amusement in the alpha’s eyes. It is nice, to know that his impulsive purchase will not result in an upset household or an unmanageable alpha. And it will be even nicer should the alpha keep his word. “You are determined not to tell me your name?”

“You may call me Johann, Dr. Granville,” the alpha says. 

“Johann,” Mortimer repeats, testing the name. It’s by no means a common name, but neither is it difficult to pronounce and it is a far cry better than just calling him “the alpha”. He nods in acceptance. “Thank you, Johann. Now come – I keep early hours, and I suspect you might be as hungry for a good night’s sleep on an actual bed as you were for hot food.”

* * *

Dr. Granville, Johann decides, is a very strange little creature. He shows no fear at all around Johann, even turning his back on him when he fetches spare blankets from a cabinet, and although he tells Johann he will lock the door to the tiny room he installs Johann in, he does not chain Johann to the bed or the wall and he does not threaten him with death should he try to escape. This house is by no means falling apart, but even half-starved, Johann could easily break down the door and flee into the night.

Not that he will. Dr. Granville has given him a good, hot meal, and now a comfortable bed, and he sounds like an interesting man. 

More importantly, he has been kind. After so long in a foreign court with every noble and servant gnawing and nibbling at his heels like a pack of wolves, the kindness feels strange, like sandpaper taken to skin. Johann can barely remember half of the things he said to the good doctor, except that he misspoke once and was forced to quickly remedy it. Yet this doctor did not beat him or whip him or do anything else his ownership allows; he accepted Johann’s words and continued eating, like nothing had happened at all, and still provided Johann with a room, albeit a tiny room more akin to a closet. 

After so long in a prison cell, though, he has no complaints. He splashes some water on his face from the bowl of water the doctor left him, relieves himself in the chamber pot in the corner, and then climbs onto the tiny, squeaking bed, and sleeps well.

* * *

The next morning, they run into an unexpected problem, which is that Johann has nothing else to wear, and he cannot possibly enter the good doctor’s practice his dirty, sweaty, foul clothing. Dr. Granville does, at one point, retrieve his largest set of pants and shirts, but although Johann does his best, the pants are far too short for polite company, and the less said about the shirt, the better.

Dr. Granville eventually looks to the clock and gives up. “Well, I suppose you should get another day to acclimate yourself,” he says with a sigh. “I will visit the tailor’s on my way back and hopefully procure you some decent clothing, or at least something that can cover you decently before we make a return visit. Do you think you would be able to occupy yourself for the day?”

Johann can’t stop himself from teasing him. “Are you not afraid that I will steal your money and run far away?”

The good doctor, half into his waistcoat, merely shrugs. “I suppose you could try,” he says. “But you know not where I keep my keys, or my money, or my shoes. I doubt you would get far without all three.”

He makes a good point. Johann sits down, now that the frantic energy of trying to get dressed before the office opens has passed, and tries to catch his breath.

“I will return around lunchtime to check on you,” Dr. Granville calls over his shoulder as he grabs his gloves and hat and shoes. “And I will close up early, today, if I have no late appointments. Please do try not to destroy any of my possessions.”

And then the good doctor is gone, leaving behind the sweet scent of an omega, and Johann spends a good five minutes inhaling it in before he realizes that he is still half naked and crammed into pants too short for his legs, and he sighs and gets up and begins to struggle out of them again.

He does not rip them, and he considers it a right miracle.

* * *

Johann spends the early morning sleeping, trying to readjust to the idea of an actual bed. His room has a window, but it is set high in the wall and very tiny, and so Johann is able to enjoy a few more hours of peace before the light truly fills the room and he is driven from the sweet land of dreams by the warm call of the sun. 

He amuses himself, briefly, by attempting to pick the locks that keep his ankles and wrists chains, but it is a fruitless endeavor, and he gives up when his arms grow tired and weary. After that, he prowls around the house, exploring the tiny kitchen, tiny sitting room, tinier bathroom, and what looks to be a study. He can make out the outline of where a bed might have stood, and realizes that the good doctor must have moved his bed into a smaller room to make room for huge stacks of papers and books and boxes. He opens a few, just out of curiosity, and finds sketches for looks like a feather duster with a motor attached; he is not sure why the doctor might need such plans, unless he was lying about wishing he could be attended by servants. Either way, Johann is eventually draw to the huge wall of books, which to his delight contain a great deal of medical treatises.

When Johann takes a few out, he realizes that these treatises are well-loved; the spines are cracked, the pages bear oil from fingers, and there are numerous small pieces of paper acting as bookmarks. The good doctor, it seems, earned his title honestly. 

Johann eventually finds a chair, hidden underneath a pile of clothing balanced upon a pile of books which rests upon a box, and after he redistributes the contents to the floor and another chair, he settles in to read. He spent so long at court, after all, trying to bring about acceptance of such treatises that he hardly had time to read the latest updates himself, and if there is one thing Johann agreed with Dr. Granville on, it was that being a doctor is both a quest for knowledge and a pledge for service.

He is still reading that treatise, in fact, when he hears the door squeal on its hinges at it opens. Johann looks about for a scrap of paper to mark his place – and then he tenses, for he smells not the sweet perfume of an omega, but the earthy scent of a beta.

“Mortimer!” a feminine voice calls out. “Mortimer, it’s me!”

A faint recognition stirs on Johann’s mind. The voice is that of the good doctor’s companion, the one who tried to dissuade Dr. Granville from purchasing him. As footsteps climb towards the study, Johann is strangely happy that Dr. Granville left him in chains, so that he could not be accused of impropriety or shirking the duty he was assigned to.

“Mortimer – oh,” says the woman, entering the study. “Ah. So that is why he asked me to meet him here.”

“My lady,” Johann says in reply, not wanting to get up and alarm her. It would be more proper, but these are hardly usual circumstances, and he has no desire to make any move that might be construed as an attack.

The woman makes a face. “We’re not in court, you know.”

“It would not be proper – ”

“Well, we’re rather past proper, aren’t we?” she interrupts tartly. “Mortimer is an unmated omega, and you’re an unmated alpha, living under one roof, and with no intention of mating. Now _that_ is improper.”

“I will not hurt him.”

“Oh? And how am I to know that? Your word?” She scoffs. “You were pardoned by a king and then sold into Service, which either means that you did something incredibly foolhardy or you were an idiot. Or both. Neither of which gives me confidence in your word, or your ability to control yourself. You’re not even properly dressed.”

“None of Dr. Granville’s clothes fit me.”

“And you did not go to the office to carry out your duties, which is the reason he spent a good deal of money on you.”

“I could hardly appear to his patients in my state of dress.”

“And you are still an unmated alpha.”

Johann shrugs, at that. To deny it would be foolish; to embrace would be useless. “An alpha who can offer nothing to an omega is unlikely to become mated,” he points out. “And Dr. Granville purchased these chains as well as me; even were he to succumb to heat, he has the means to contain me if I ever lost control.”

“If?”

“Do you think me a feral monster?”

“I don’t need to think,” she declares haughtily. “Have you ever smelled an omega in heat?”

Johann, most unfortunately, has not. Once he presented as an alpha, he was separated from omegas and betas to avoid any temptation, and all the ladies and noblewomen of the court go into seclusion when they approach heat, as is proper. He has smelled the pre-heat, that sweet scent of baking bread and freshly picked mint, and post-heat, caramel sugar and fine mulled wine, but never heat itself. He has to shake his head.

She puts her hands on her hips. “Have you even ever smelled an omega? Actually – wait here,” she says, before Johann can reply, and vanishes down the hallway.

It’s abrupt and rude and strange, but Johann can definitely say that he’s been received worse. And he understands her suspicions, for it truly can lead to terrible outcomes for unmated alphas and omegas to live under the same roof. Yet Dr. Granville clearly has no interest in him, and Johann has no interest in Dr. Granville, and Johann knows that’s the best he can settle for, now.

The woman returns with something bundled in her hands. She marches straight up to Johann, leaning into his space when he instinctively shies away, and thrusts the fabric into his face.

He can’t help but inhale, and the scent of honey and chocolate and warm bread nearly makes him swoon. It’s _intoxicating_. The Queen had been lovely, of course, and wonderful, but she had only been a beta; no beta’s scent can hold a candle to an omega’s. Johann can feel the urge rising up in him – the snarl and strike and hunt, to stalk through the streets, to tear apart anyone who separates him from the person who smells like divinity itself.

But he is not just his urges. He is a doctor, and a gentleman, and once upon a time, a loving partner to a Queen.

With great difficulty, Johann grasps the fabric and rips it off his face. He throws it as far away from him as he can, satisfied at the muted thump as it hits the far wall. The fresh air is wonderfully free of that intoxicating scent, and Johann breathes it in greedily, trying to calm his racing heart as he clutches at the chair he is sitting on and tries to clear his mind. He thinks of blood, and terrible wounds, and the way the Queen had screamed when she was sent away. He thinks of the awful cells, and stinking ship, and aching hunger. He breathes in, and breathes out, and slowly comes back to himself.

The woman is leaning against the wall, watching him, when he finally raises his head and makes eye contact. She raises one eyebrow at him.

“Perhaps you have had some experience with omegas,” she allows. “Most alphas would be storming through the streets after getting a whiff of omega slick.”

“And most friends would be more careful than to risk enraging an alpha with their friend’s underthings,” Johann retorts, too annoyed to be polite anymore. “If you were so worried about me going feral, why risk this?”

The woman pats at the nearest stack of books with a sly smile. “Because in here there are many heavy weapons with which I could disable you,” she tells him sweetly. 

Johann sighs and slumps back in his chair. Now that he is finally calming down, his body understanding that there is no omega here and no sweet scent to chase, the anger is dissipating too, leaving only weariness behind.

“Is there anything else you would like to say to me?” he asks.

“Of course. Hurt him, good sir, and I will tear you apart,” she says cheerfully. “Lay one finger on him, in fact, and I will remove your insides with my bare hands, and I won’t stop until your heart ceases to beat. Are I understood?”

“You have my word,” Johann says, because there is nothing else to say.

“Excellent! Well, tell Mortimer that I’ve left some supper on the table, and to buy you some actual clothes, and that I’ll drop by the clinic in a day or two to see how everything is going. Good day.”

And just that like, the woman is gone, as abruptly as she had come, and the door slams before Johann even realizes that he doesn’t know what her name is.

He looks at the little bundle of fabric, takes a deep breath to remind himself of who he is, and goes back to reading medical treatises.

* * *

Fortunately, Dr. Granville returns early, with a bundle of clothing in his arms. Even more fortunately, he appears to know exactly who visited when Johann passes on the message. Most unfortunately, he appears to also know that Johann was . . . tested.

“I’d wager she did something dramatic,” he sighs as Johann slides a shirt on and finds it fits quite well. “Are you hurt?”

“Only my pride.”

“Yes, Charlotte does do that. Does everything fit?”

“Very well indeed. I thank you.”

“No thanks needed. This should be enough until we can go to the tailor to get you some more. I hope you’re ready to come and see my clinic, Johann.”

“As long as your Charlotte is not there to throw more underthings in my face.”

“She did what?!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Next up, there's a visit to the office, a fight, and a revelation. 
> 
> Also sorry about the long wait, I got distracted by uhhh the World being on FireTM. But it is my intention to finish the fic for [RareMeat's Mortimer Week](https://twitter.com/RareMeat_/status/1327592111722606593) so the next updates should come faster XD


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a visit to the office, a fight, and a revelation.

On Johann’s first day in the clinic, Mortimer takes him an hour early, so that he can conduct a little tour and explain how everything works. He’s managed, at least, to expand the clinic, so he now has the waiting room, with a desk and plenty of chairs; two patient rooms with the appropriate screens and patient privacy equipment; an office where he can receive patients for initial consultations and keep his records; and a little washroom, in case anyone needs to splash some water on their face or use the toilet.

Johann, who is now dressed in proper clothing and out of his chains, listens with a very patient expression, not at all seeming nonplussed to being told what to do by an omega. He asks pertinent questions, laughs a little when Mortimer shows him where some of the money is kept, and even helps draw back the curtains to prepare the office.

When everything is said and done, Mortimer leads Johann to the little reception desk. He pulls out the patient book and tells Johann, “I update the list of appointments here every day, or every other day. You can check off each patient as they arrive. That ensures that my bookkeeping can be accurate.”

“Will any of your patients be offended if I am not familiar with them?”

Mortimer shrugs. “They can find another physician to treat them if they are. And I’m sure you can handle anyone.”

“You put great faith in me,” Johann says, smiling faintly. But he settles himself into the chair very neatly, if a little awkwardly, and pushes his bound hair out of his face. At Mortimer’s request, he takes up a quill and writes a few lines, and Mortimer is pleased enough with his handwriting and abilities to let him be.

Mortimer goes and takes the keys to formally unlock the doors. His office has no garish sign advertising it, and indeed no signage at all. Johann had expressed surprise at that – he had nearly walked down the rest of the street before realizing that Mortimer had stopped and hastily had doubled back – and seeing as now Charlotte and Johann have remarked upon it, Mortimer sighs and reminds himself to see about procuring a proper sign. He’s not likely to have patients stopping in as they stroll down the street, of course, but he is starting to get recommendations, and the easier he makes it for them, the better things will probably go.

When he returns, Johann is digging around in the bottom drawer of the desk, as if searching for something.

“Is something amiss?” Mortimer asks politely.

Johann shakes his head, closing the drawer. “I was merely wondering if you had something to defend yourself. I now see why your friend was so anxious about you procuring protection.” 

“I’ve never had a problem.”

“And you could have ensured that you never would with a small weapon. A baton, perhaps. A gun, if you were bold.”

Mortimer crosses his arms and glares. “I’m a doctor, not a soldier. What kind of physician carries a gun in his own office?”

Johann grins, teeth flashing in the sunlight. He appears not the least bit displeased by Mortimer’s remarks. “A wise one,” he says, laughing quietly. “Not all patients are pleased with the diagnosis you might give them, after all.”

Mortimer pinches his nose, but inwardly he is pleased to see Johann relaxed and laughing, so he does not continue the argument. Instead, he goes to straighten the chairs and open the doors, making sure everything is perfect. He has a cleaning service, of course, but they do not come every day, and Mortimer likes to have everything as pristine as he can at the start of the day. It helps make a good impression, he has found.

Just as he is adjusting the screen in his patient room, he hears the ring of the bell above the door. Almost on instinct, he strides to the door and prepares to enter, but then he hears the calm, soft voice of Johann speaking, and so instead he loiters by the door to watch.

Johann is calm and courteous, standing to greet the somewhat nervous lady and inclining his head, like a true gentleman. He puts a mark by her name and then gestures her to a chair. Then he walks over to the patient rooms, saying, “Dr. Granville, Miss Gardner is here for your first appointment.”

“Thank you very much,” Mortimer tells him, beaming, and goes to greet his first patient.

* * *

After that, it’s a rush of appointments. With the patent filed, word has quickly spread of his practice, and Mortimer finds himself dashing from room to room to handle his patients, although he maintains decorum because he is not a fool. Johann works wonderfully to greet the patients and escort them to the room when it is their time, and he even defers any questions to Mortimer, not seeming the least bit unhappy about it.

Mortimer starts to wonder how he ever operated successfully without a helping hand, especially when Johann pulls him aside from jotting down some notes and sets down his packed lunch in front of him.

“You need to eat,” Johann says, frowning, sounding like a stressed out teacher. “You have been working nonstop since this morning.”

“My patients are – ”

“Can wait for at least twenty minutes,” Johann interrupts. He points sternly at the sandwich. “Now eat. I will make your excuses.”

Johann then pointedly shuts the door behind him. He does not slam it, but the click of it closing is quite a bit louder than it normally is, and Mortimer can just imagine that Johann will actually make sure that the entire sandwich is gone before he lets Mortimer out to handle more patients. He’s not completely surprised, of course; alphas can be just as nurturing as omegas, when the urge strikes them, and Johann’s demeanor seems to be the rather more laidback, gentle alpha type.

It’s a good sign, anyways. Mortimer bites into his lunch, surprised to realize that he is indeed famished, and consumes it all in rapid succession.

When he opens the door, Johann tilts his head and raises an eyebrow.

“Yes, I have eaten,” Mortimer tells him. “And now I am ready to treat my next patient. Are they ready?”

“Yes, the Lady Percy is waiting in the room to your left. I asked her to please be patient, and to use the time to disrobe behind the screen and make herself comfortable. I would advise you knock before entering, but she should have had sufficient time.”

Mortimer can’t help his smile. It’s everything Mortimer would do himself, if he had to. “I think this partnership will work wonderfully between us,” he tells Johann.

“Only if you remember to eat,” Johann remarks.

* * *

Dr. Granville, Johann soon learns, favors a soft approach to treatment. He is firm and unyielding about what is necessary for the patient, of course, as all physicians must be, but he makes a point to sit down with patients, explain things in a soft calm voice, and coax them into the patient rooms. Johann, in his time, would have simply stood his ground and insisted he knew what was right, as he did when it came time for vaccinations. 

It could be attributed to Dr. Granville’s omega gender, but Johann has a sneaking suspicion that the good doctor came by this bedside manner naturally. After all, other omegas had turned their nose up at buying Johann, yet Dr. Granville had seen him and instantly decided in his favor.

All of this to say: although the work with Dr. Granville is not very stimulating, Johann finds that he enjoys the slower, more-relaxed pace of it. It’s very nice to not have servants banging on his door at all hours demanding assistance for their masters, and instead have patients that politely come in and are seated once Johann confirms their appointment. It is nice to catch whiffs of sweet and happy omegas, for although Dr. Granville uses incense and other such perfumes in the air, Johann’s nose is sharp, and his alpha side is soothed at knowing that this is a calm place, where there is no conflict. He even enjoys the fact that Dr. Granville closes up for lunch, allowing Johann time to stretch his cramped legs and back, and to wolf down the portion Dr. Granville so generously provides him.

“I need to get you a better chair,” Dr. Granville mutters into between bites, casting a critical eye as Johann rolls his neck by the window. 

“The one I have is sufficient.”

“It’s sufficient for a much shorter person, and you stand at least a head higher than most alphas,” Dr. Granville says bluntly. “And I’d rather not have to watch my secretary work the kinks out of his back and neck all weekend long.”

Johann takes a seat in the chair by the window instead of replying. He can’t argue that a better chair would relieve some of his discomfort, but he is also aware that some of the aches are from long confinement in the hold of the ship and the tiny cells of the prison. It may take some time for them to leave him, if ever. That being said, it still touches him to see Dr. Granville think of his comfort first. Most of those sold into Service are hardly treated so well.

Dr. Granville looks up and notices him watching. “Why are you staring at me so? Would you prefer to remain cramped?”

Johann has to hide a smile. “I think you enjoy doing kind things for people,” Johann tells him. “I am simply . . . unfamiliar with such kindness.”

“Well, become familiar with it. I didn’t become a doctor to make people suffer.”

They settle into a comfortable silence, then. Dr. Granville absently takes bites between recording notes, and Johann lets his eyes slip closed as he drifts. The air is thick with the scent of perfumes and parchment paper and happy omega, soothing the anxious edge of alpha in the dark recesses of Johann’s brain. He almost wants to bottle it, and keep it for the inevitable day when he is alone and cold again. 

But he is not so foolish as to dwell too much on the future when the present may yet be enjoyed, and so he opens his eyes to glance at the clock. The lunch hour, he finds, is almost done, but the bathroom is calling his name.

He stands and stretches. “I must take care of some business, and then I will go unlock the door, if you don’t mind,” he says.

Dr. Granville waves an airy hand. “I can unlock the door, don’t worry.”

“If you do everything yourself, Dr. Granville, then what will be left for me?”

“Plenty!” the good doctor calls at his retreating back, but Johann can hear the smile in his voice. He can picture it too, for Dr. Granville is generous with his smiles: the way his eyes light up, and his curls glow in the sunlight, and his smile stretches so wide that Johann sometimes wonders how it does not hurt his face. It’s a very earnest smile, but no less honest; it warms Johann like the hottest soup on a cold winter night.

The thought distracts him so much, in fact, that it is not until he has finished relieving himself and is washing his hands when he registers an angry shout and a thump.

Frowning, he dries his hands quickly on the nearest piece of cloth and walks out to the door, for he had not thought they had an appointment for at least another half hour, and that is when he stumbles into a most unfortunate sight.

There is a man – tall, dark haired, shirt wrinkled and pants stained – standing in the waiting room. He has his teeth bared, his eyes are red with alpha rage, and his scent is crisp with anger, almost like the edge of burnt bread or meat left too on the spit. He is slurring his words, but more importantly, he is _pointing a knife at Dr. Granville_.

A sound emerges from Johann’s throat; he has no control over it, but it is deep and dark and threatening, a vicious anger of his own.

The man and Dr. Granville both look at him. Dr. Granville, who has his hands raised above his head, clears his throat, as if he to say something, and the man swings back around to him, wobbling on his legs and leveling the knife straight at him.

“Not a word out of you, you – you – thief! You conman, you womanizer, you cheap lowlife!” the man slurs. “You turned my wife into – ”

“I did nothing to your wife,” Dr. Granville interrupts sharply. “She came requesting treatment, and I, as a physician, delivered it. Nothing untoward happened here.”

“Oh really? Then pray tell, why has she returned for the past three months? Or are you truly that – that inefficient?”

Dr. Granville sighs impatiently. “The course of treatment is not so swift as to last only a single session,” he explains, edging a step or two away. Johann almost wants to tell him to take more steps, but he is too busy gauging the distance between him and the other man, and that takes up more space in his brain than words. “Her treatment has been very successful so far. But I promise you, nothing untoward happened! I have no designs on your wife. Indeed, it would be incredibly inappropriate for me to have attachment to any of my patients.”

“Inappropriate? You are the _embodiment_ of inappropriate behavior!” the man howls. “You make my wife disrobe and – and feel her in her most intimate areas!”

“I most certainly do not. There is a privacy screen for changing and a privacy box for when the treatment begins, and a device is used – ”

The mention of Dr. Granville’s patent enrages the man; Johann could not say how or why. Only that when the words leave his lips, the man shrieks in outrage and charges forward, swinging the knife blindly. 

He misses, fortunately, but that is partly because Dr. Granville jumps away – and partly because Johann pounces.

All of Johann’s rage rises to the forefront. He is an alpha ripped away from his Queen and his child and his country by drunkard alphas like this one, and all of that anger bubbles forth as he slams the man to the ground with a snarl. The knife disappears somewhere – Johann could not say where – and when the man snarls back, Johann grasps his head and thumps it against the floor. He takes great satisfaction in the way the man whines and whimpers when Johann thumps his head against the ground again for good measure, kneeling heavily on the man’s chest to prevent a struggle.

He is, in fact, about the bang the man’s head again when he feels the insistent grasp on a hand on his arm. He almost turns on the hand, but then he comes face to face with Dr. Granville, with his eyes and his curls and his _voice_.

“Johann,” Dr. Granville says. It is all he says, but it is all he needs to say.

Alphas have gone to war over omegas, and omegas have stopped wars by alphas. Thus it is always known, for while alphas have their growls and their fangs and their strength, omegas have their purrs and their slick and their beautiful, alluring, intoxicating voices. An omega’s voice, to an alpha, is a call more powerful than any siren or angel. And to hear an omega command something, well.

Johann realizes that he is snarling, and he clamps his jaw shut and lets the sounds stop. The man beneath him is as silent as death, although Johann can tell he still breathes; that fact makes it difficult for Johann to convince his hands to release the man, but Dr. Granville tugs insistently upon his arm, and so he goes.

Dr. Granville pulls him off to the side and examines his hands. “Are you hurt? I didn’t see whether the knife cut you.”

Johann shakes his head, unable to muster words. The anger and the fight is rapidly leaving him, and the cold, hard voice of reason is filtering back in. To attempt murder is bad enough amongst equals – to attempt murder while bound into Service, lower than even the lowest of betas, is another thing entirely.

It takes him two swallows of his throat to find his words again. “Am I to be punished?”

Dr. Granville startles at that. He looks up, eyes wide, and says, “What? Why on earth would I submit you for punishment?”

“I attacked someone.”

“Yes. And you were defending me.” Dr. Granville’s voice is like diamond, hard and unbreakable. “There is no court in the land that would punish an alpha reacting in defense of their omega.”

Johann blinks. He’s not wrong, of course; an alpha is given huge leeway in defending their hearth and home, and an omega is key to them both. That being said: “But we are not . . .”

“You and I both know that instincts often overrule common sense,” Dr. Granville tells him. “And I think you showed great restraint and did not kill him outright. You were very tempted to, I could tell.”

And Johann was indeed, but he swallows down the words. Dr. Granville’s tone is different now, and Johann is still keyed up enough to notice. Since the intruder is well and truly unconscious, he tilts his head and focuses all of his attention upon Dr. Granville, who is still fretting over his hands and arms, searching for nonexistent cuts. It is behavior of an omega fretting over their alpha, but more importantly, there is an edge to his actions, a tilt to his lips, a smokiness to his scent.

Johann stifles a laugh. Apparently Dr. Granville is far less aggrieved and far more satisfied at Johann’s behavior. “So, there is your vicious streak, then, my good doctor?” Johann teases.

Dr. Granville flicks his eyes up. The smallest, briefest smile passes over his face, and Johann knows it is the only acknowledgement he will get. 

Johann lowers himself into a bow, as he used to do for the King and Queen. He can’t deny that he got great satisfaction out of finally using up some of the pent up rage within him, and he’s far more confident in his place with Dr. Granville, now that he has seen some of the fangs the good doctor keeps hidden underneath his gentle omega veneer. He knows better than anyone that omegas can be just as vicious as alphas; not knowing where that side might show in Dr. Granville unnerved him, ever so slightly. He can live with an omega that takes delight when Johann grinds his attackers and enemies into the dirt.

Even if he can’t kill them, like he truly wishes to.

Johann tilts his head towards the unconscious drunk alpha on the floor. “Shall I throw him into the street, Dr. Granville?”

Dr. Granville laughs and squeezes his hands. “No,” he scolds, pulling away and beginning to straighten his clothing and smooth down his riot of curls. “You may not.”

“He did attack you.”

“He did, but I am a physician, and I do not turn away the poor or the unfortunate or the ill.”

“What about the foolish?”

Dr. Granville raises an eyebrow. “I took you in, did I not?”

Johann sighs. He cannot say he’s surprised at Dr. Granville’s decision, after all. He inclines his head and walks over to the man, nudging him with a foot. The man does not move, but at least his chest still rises and falls. Johann leans down and rolls the man onto his side with a grunt, so that he does not choke on his own vomit when the alcohol recedes and leaves him sober and possessed of a headache. 

“Johann,” Dr. Granville calls, emerging from the office with a wet cloth and a bundle of fabric wrapped into a pillow, “do you mind terribly rolling him over so that he does not – oh. You’ve anticipated my recommendation.”

Johann reaches up and accepts the bundle, tucking it underneath the man’s head. “Well, since you did not wish me to kill him or to toss him in the street,” he says dryly, “that leaves making sure that he lives.”

“Yes, but not everyone knows how to move a man into a position where he might recover. Did you assist a physician when you were at court?”

The words come before Johann can stop himself. “I _was_ the physician at court.”

Dr. Granville, who has his fingers tucked to the man’s wrist and his eyes on the clock, freezes. Johann freezes too; he had not meant to reveal so much information. It is not that he fears Dr. Granville finding out what he did, exactly, for he has been pardoned and Dr. Granville seems rather uninterested in court politics. It is rather that he does not wish Dr. Granville to think less of him, as a fellow physician who has fallen so far. Johann swallows and holds his breath, staring at the floor, and waits to see what Dr. Granville will say.

A warm hand reaches over and settles atop his. Dr. Granville’s thumb strokes along his skin, soothing and gentle. It is overwhelming, to receive such a large amount of skin contact in such a short amount of time; Johann has to close his eyes to contain himself.

When he is back in control, he opens his eyes and finds Dr. Granville looking at him. There is no judgement in his eyes – no demands for answers, no derision for what happened to him, not even a flicker of morbid curiosity. Instead he finds only a silent kinship, like the sun and moon falling into orbit and circling in perfect harmony.

“In that case,” Dr. Granville says lightly, “I think you had better address me as an equal and call me Mortimer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Next up, there's an unexpected heat, some pining, and a lot of moaning.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's an unexpected heat, some pining, and a lot of moaning.

Now that they truly understand each other and where they stand, Mortimer finds that Johann and he fall smoothly into a rhythm. Mortimer, as the natural early riser, prepares breakfast and lunch and gets them out the door. Johann, as the man who can bury himself in books until the sun rises, generally prepares dinner and shoos them off to bed. They have long conversations about medical discoveries and procedures and treatments. Johann fends off angry alphas and husbands, and Mortimer soothes the nervous ones. 

It’s like the final piece of the puzzle settling in. With a second pair of hands at the office, keeping an eye on patients and records, Mortimer is free to focus upon treating his patients, and they are able to handle an influx that he knows would have crippled him beforehand. As thanks, he starts setting aside a small sum of money.

Johann raises an eyebrow at him, when he finds out. “I am not able to hold property or assets,” he says, sounding very amused for a man who’s literally buried in papers and books.

Or maybe it’s the fact that Mortimer is half dressed and wearing a towel on his head.

Mortimer scowls and scrubs the towel more firmly in his curls. Sometimes he debates cutting it all off and settling for a shorter, more professional hair style, but other times he enjoys it, and Johann’s hair is even longer, so he can’t comment. “I’m well aware. But I won’t hold you in Service to me forever, and it would hardly be kind for me to kick you out without any money to your name.”

“Service has no natural end date.”

Mortimer shrugs. “You did call me an unusual omega.”

Johann’s eyes brighten at the recollection. He had indeed called Mortimer that, only a week ago, upon finding Mortimer nearly dancing across the room upon the shipment of new equipment. The motors are stronger and sturdier, meaning they can do treatment faster and more efficiently, and they also cost less. Johann had stared at Mortimer, hands covered in gears and parts, and tried valiantly not to laugh. He had teased Mortimer though.

Johann leans back. His hair is escaping its tie, and long strands spill over his chest and neck. In his loose white shirt and even looser pants, he looks the picture of ease and tranquility. He smells it too; Mortimer has found himself unconsciously breathing deeply when Johann is around, merely to bask in the scent of pleased alpha.

“You could leave me with a parting gift. No need to set aside money now,” Johann points out. “After all, I am not paying for room and board, or meals, or clothing.”

“I like to be prepared.”

“You like being kind,” Johann corrects, bending back over his book, but his lips are curled in a small smile, and there isn’t a single whit of accusation or judgment.

It makes Mortimer wish all alphas were so laidback.

“I find that the world is better if we are kind,” Mortimer says.

Johann’s eyes flick up to meet his. Sometimes, for all that he has recovered from his injuries and imprisonment, Mortimer can still see a small shadow of the resigned, fearful alpha he met at the auction, like a dog beaten too many times and scared to emerge. He never has fear that Johann will hurt him, but Johann appears entirely convinced of his unworthiness in being chosen by Mortimer. No amount of arguing has changed his mind, unfortunately, but Mortimer didn’t become a physician by giving in.

He sets his jaw. “When I end your terms of Service,” Mortimer tells him, “I will make sure that you have the means to support yourself until you find a placement, or gainful employment.”

Johann blinks, just once, and looks at the floor. “As you wish,” he says roughly.

It’s an improvement, Mortimer decides. At least he isn’t going to argue. One time the argument had gotten so heated that Mortimer had retreated to his bedroom and locked the door, breathing deeply to quell his anxiety. Johann had paced outside of his door for hours, until he had finally sat on the floor and the house had gone cold and quiet and still again. They had talked, then, words whispered into the darkness of the night and the barrier of the door.

_”You are kind,” Mortimer had said. “You are knowledgeable and gentle and worthy.”_

_“You are too trusting,” Johann had said, fond irritation bleeding into his words. “How has no other alpha taken advantage of you?”_

_“I don’t have to worry about it. I have you now, don’t I?”_

_“Yes,” Johann had said, deep and low, an alpha’s voice through and through. “You have me.”_

And that had been the end of the discussion.

“Good night,” Mortimer says softly.

Johann inclines his head. When he stands to bid Mortimer good night in return, Mortimer eyes his strong shoulders, his steady hands, his calm scent, and wonders however Johann might have gotten the idea that he was not worthy.

* * *

Winter sets in, and Mortimer uses that as ample reason to drag Johann back to the tailors for more clothing. Johann has been resisting, stating that he is more than satisfied with his current complement of clothing, but Mortimer has not accepted it, mostly because Johann would say burned bread and watery gruel was more than adequate. Also, it bothers him, as an omega, to see an alpha without enough material for a nest, even if nesting is more of an omega behavior and he isn’t exactly going to invite Johann into his own nest.

But he doesn’t let that hold him back from dragging a protesting Johann out the door.

“I have enough clothing – ”

Mortimer nudges him again, because by now he knows that Johann is fairly obliging and will give way, and then shuts the door firmly behind them. Johann has a key, of course, but now that he’s outside, Johann wilts ever so slightly and seems resigned to it.

As they set off down the street, Mortimer tucks his hand into Johann’s elbow and pats consolingly at him. “Winter is coming,” he reminds Johann. “And I don’t know where you grew up, but here it is cold and grey and rainy. So you need proper clothing. I won’t have my assistant coming down with pneumonia.”

Johann sighs and guides them around a puddle. His scent smooths out, the anxious edge dissipating as he takes in the fresh air and the clear sunshine, and he willingly lets Mortimer press close, as if they are bonded mates. His steps are a little hesitant, because although Mortimer gives him free leave to wander during his free time Johann rarely leaves the office or the house, but he lets Mortimer leave and pleasantly greets those who they cross paths with. 

He does hesitate at the tailor’s, though.

Mortimer sighs and tugs at his arm. “You’ve already had your measurements taken, surely you – ”

“It’s not that,” Johann says. He inclines his head at the apothecary near the tailor, just down the street. “I would like to make inquiries about where I might purchase some . . . medication.”

“Are you ill?”

Johann shakes his head. “It’s of a more . . . private nature,” he says, because they are in public.

And, well. For physicians, there are few things still regarded as private. Fewer still that might apply to an alpha. Mortimer blows out a long breath and digs around in his pocket for his coin purse. He takes out enough to purchase the proper remedies to forestall a rut, and then doubles it just in case.

Johann’s forehead creases and his lips thin, but he does not protest. Instead he takes the money, tucks it into his pocket, and then he pulls away, letting his hand travel down the length of Mortimer’s arm. It’s a casual gesture – Mortimer is sure that Johann does it out of habit or instinct, not out of intent – but it still takes his breath away, because it’s a gesture so reminiscent of scenting. It’s quite telling, too, that Johann looks reluctant to pull away, and eventually Mortimer has to nudge him very gently and then set off into the tailor’s before Johann goes.

Once inside, he watches Johann walk away – watches his long legs eat up the road, watches his long hair dance in the breeze, watches how he has to duck into the door because he is just so tall.

It makes the omega part of Mortimer, the part that demands the warmest blankets and softest pillows, preen and purr.

Mortimer tells that part to calm down. After all, he’s not due for a heat for some time. 

And in any case, he’ll get a closer look when they take Johann’s measurements again.

* * *

Most times, patients are happy to accept Mortimer. Many are women or omegas, and Mortimer has found that they are always happier and more comfortable in the presence of a fellow omega. He would never dare to commiserate over their shared organs, of course, but he can sympathize with their symptoms and understand what they mean when they describe the deep seated pain during their cycles.

Sometimes, though, Mortimer gets a patient who is taken aback by his omega gender. It’s rare, because Mortimer usually does the initial consult himself, but this patient took one look at Johann and, apparently, made up his mind.

It doesn’t go well.

For starters, it begins with the patient batting his eyes as Johann as he escorts the patient to the room. Mortimer can’t stop his raised eyebrow at that, but Johann’s lips quirk and he presses his arm against Mortimer’s as he passes over the file. Under the guise of introducing the patient, Johann murmurs, “You may find this patient a tad difficult.”

“Do you think I can’t handle them?”

Johann smiles and inclines his head. “I think,” he replies, “that trouble is trouble no matter who it is for. I will be right outside, if you need me.” 

The patient is restless and twitchy during the initial examination. This is not a surprise; most patients are not pleased at the myriad of questions Mortimer puts forth as he collects information to establish a baseline and learn about his patients. But this patient keeps casting coy glances at the door, and when Mortimer stands and gestures to the screen, the patient frowns.

“I would like to request that the other physician attend to me,” he says loftily, refusing to budge.

Mortimer does not sigh. He does, however, lean against his chair. “I’m afraid that this is a solo practice. There is no other physician here.”

The patient waves an airy hand. “Yes, yes, we’re all for the omega rights movement,” he says. “But we both know that you would need the approval of an alpha to purchase such a place, and most certainly permission to run it on your own.”

“You are correct. I was sponsored by my mentor, Dr. Dalrymple.”

The patient sits up straight, mouthing the name to himself. That same coy smile slides in place, sickeningly sweet, like overripe fruit. “Is that his name? I would so like to request his treatment.”

“I’m afraid he retired,” Mortimer explains. “If you wouldn’t mind, Mr. – ”

“But I _do_ mind,” the patient interrupts. “I would have Dr. Dalrymple, or no one.”

Mortimer does sigh, at that. It won’t hurt him to lose a patient, of course, but it is still annoying to run into patients who refuse to accept that he can treat them just as well as any alpha doctor, and perhaps even better. That being said, he’s sure Johann will find it very amusing, because he absolutely delights in the chaos when people underestimate Mortimer. He’s not sure why, but he doesn’t question what makes Johann smile, as it is so rare.

He gestures to the door. “Very well. I’m sorry that I was unable to assist you. Good day, sir.”

The patient rises with a smirk and walks to the door. When he opens it, Johann is studiously bent over his desk, looking for all the world like he is busy cataloging patient entries. But Mortimer can see the way he stiffens when the door opens, and how his head tilts, ever so slightly, to take in every sound he can hear. Johann is an attentive alpha in so many ways, but most of all in the way that he is constantly on the lookout for threats hiding in the shadows.

“Dr. Dalrymple,” the patient purrs, stalking close.

Johann lifts his head. A polite confused frown crosses his face. “I’m sorry?”

“You are Dr. Dalrymple, are you not?”

Johann tilts his head, still looking as innocent as a newborn lamb. “I’m afraid I have no idea to whom you’re referring,” he says, exceedingly polite.

The patient falters, wobbling just a tiny bit.

Johann looks back at Mortimer, so casually it’s like they have rehearsed this. “Dr. Granville,” he says, “are you familiar with a Dr. Dalrymple?”

“Yes,” Mortimer says, just as casually. “He was my mentor. But he has long since retired.”

“Ahhh,” Johann says, nodding to himself. “There you have it, good sir; Dr. Dalrymple is retired. Can I assist you in any other way?”

The patient gapes at him like a fish. His scent is muddled and confused, like fresh mud, and he blurts out, “Then you are not – ”

“Heavens no, I am not a physician,” Johann laughs. “I just work for one.”

The patient practically bolts out the door, then; Mortimer barely remembers calling out a polite greeting as the door opens and the patient flees for the streets. What he does remember is bursting into laughter the second the door closes and they are alone, and he can vaguely hear the rich rumbles of laughter from Johann as he too gives in to his amusement. Mortimer laughs so hard he actually has to balance against the wall and lower himself into the nearest seat, for fear of falling and hitting his head.

When the joy finally begins to subside, Mortimer looks up and is not surprised to find Johann crouching in front of him, a slightly concerned look on his face.

“Are you well, Mortimer?”

“Yes,” Mortimer tells him, and he lets Johann rest his hand over Mortimer’s. “He did not hurt me. Only confuse me. I did not realize he mistook you for Dr. Dalrymple.”

“It was indeed very confusing,” Johann concedes. 

“That being said, you could have admitted to being a physician.”

“Hardly. I am not experienced in your . . . treatment.”

“Perhaps you could become experienced,” Mortimer offers slyly, because Johann likes it when Mortimer teases him. And, well, he wouldn’t mind the assistance with all the new patients either.

Johann is, predictably, very amused. He smiles widely, bearing his teeth, and says, “And upon whom would I practice, my good doctor? Upon you?”

“You wouldn’t hurt me.”

Johann rubs his thumb alongside Mortimer’s hand, slow and thoughtful. He says, “No, I would not” and it’s like a wedding vow, serious and strong and powerful. His eyes are dark and serious too, and it takes Mortimer’s breath away, to see all of Johann’s formidable focus solely upon him, to be surrounded by Johann, to be touched and valued and protected by him.

But then Johann draws back, and his expression relaxes, and the moment is gone.

“Perhaps another time we can consider your suggestion,” Johann says. “But for now, I suggest we partake of lunch before another patient disturbs us.”

* * *

And then the next morning Mortimer wakes up soaked in sweat, sticky with slick, and warmer than a roaring fire, and any thoughts of convincing Johann to take up Mortimer’s trade go flying out the window.

* * *

Johann does not immediately know that something is wrong. For one thing, whenever an omega goes into heat, they usually sequester themselves, and even physicians are reluctant to intrude unless something begins to go catastrophically awry. It is generally considered that omegas themselves know best how to ride out a heat, as alphas know best how to ride out a rut. Especially unmated ones, as the usual remedy of taking an alpha to bed might be deemed not a viable option in order to preserve an omega’s chances at a good marriage.

For another, Mortimer is the early riser between the two of them, and Johann usually sleeps until the sleep of fire-warmed breakfast snakes its way up into the bedrooms and teases him out of slumber. Neither of them are particularly driven to conversation in the morning either, so Johann can carry out his morning ablutions without a word said to or from Mortimer and not think it the least bit odd.

But all goes out the window when Johann walks out of his room, yawning, and the smell strikes him.

It is honeyed bread and fresh squeezed citrus and roasted nuts. It is the dawn breeze and the salty ocean spray and the first drops of rain. It is lush and fragrant and indescribable, a call that bypasses Johann’s conscious brain and tugs at the deepest, darkest, basest parts, that makes him stand bolt upright and want to hunt and to run and to _bite_. It is heat, unmistakable and unconquerable and utterly, utterly unescapable. 

Johann pinches his nose shut and walks back into his room, free hand shaking. With trembling hands and warring instincts in his veins, he knocks open the nearest jar of peppermint cream and smears it onto his fingers. It takes two attempts and probably more cream than he needs, but he manages to spread a portion under his noise. It stings and burns, of course, but it also helps to clear his mind, somewhat.

He slumps over his desk, breathing hard, and tries to organize his thoughts. Firstly, and most importantly, he knows he needs to check on the larder and ensure they have enough food. Omegas usually lose their appetite during a heat and partake of nothing but water, but after the heat, with so much energy spent, Mortimer will be ravenous. Secondly, he needs to ensure that the proper signs are put up at the office, so that patients know that Mortimer is unavailable. And thirdly, and perhaps most importantly, he needs to down the suppressants he purchased from the apothecary. 

After all, if he goes into rut due to Mortimer’s heat, peppermint cream and all the locks in the world won’t keep him away from Mortimer.

* * *

Mortimer does not answer when Johann knocks on his door, but that is hardly surprising. Omegas do not sequester simply because it would be considered impolite to inflict their intoxicating scents upon the general populace; heats also tend to make omegas wary and defensive, seeking any safe port and holing up into their nest. As an unfamiliar alpha, Johann is aware that he probably read more as a threat to Mortimer than a friend right now.

Still, Mortimer hardly ate at dinner last night, and he most likely is dehydrated. 

Johann knocks again, just to be sure Mortimer hears, and then calls out, “Mortimer? I’ve left you some water outside the door. And some food. Please try to have some, when you can.”

Then he withdraws to the end of the corridor, far away enough for his scent to recede, and settles to the floor to wait. He moved a chair there, and it will serve as a good place to keep watch and satisfy the alpha instincts demanding that he remain close and protect Mortimer in such a vulnerable time.

After hours pass, Mortimer’s door opens, just a creak. It stays like that for a few more minutes, and then it opens just enough for one bare arm to sneak through. Mortimer’s hand closes upon the jug of water and drags it inside, but he leaves the food. Then the door clicks shut with a snap.

It’s not the best response, but Johann still breathes a sigh of relief. He’ll take it.

* * *

A day passes, and then another, and then another. Johann buys more food, he refills countless water jugs, and he keeps watch. Sometimes, despite the peppermint cream, he still gets a whiff of Mortimer’s bewitching scent, and even the faintest hint sends him bolting for his room for fear of losing control.

Mortimer is kind and generous and loving, and Johann knows that such beautiful things are not meant for him, after all.

* * *

Johann finally sees Mortimer about five days into his heat. He has just set down the latest jug of water and platter of food when the door opens before he can back away. Against his better judgment, he freezes.

Mortimer has a blanket wrapped clumsily around him, shoulders bare and legs peeking out. He is sweaty and has dark circles under his eyes, and Johann wants to drink the heat ambrosia off his skin and tuck him under his belly to shelter him and keep him safe. Instead, he swallows hard and backs into the wall, pressing his nails to his palm to keep him grounded. 

Mortimer looks at him, and smiles faintly, and says, “Hello, Johann.”

“Hello,” Johann says, because it’s the only thing he can think to say. “Are you feeling well?”

Mortimer scuffs at the ground. “I’ve been worse,” he answers slowly. “I’ve heard that heats get worse the older you are, whether you have a partner or not.”

“And you . . . have no partner?”

Mortimer hunches his shoulders like the question is a threat. It’s not an unreasonable assumption; where Johann comes from, many people have heat mates, trusted friends who can see them through the agonies of heat and rut and not breathe a word of what happens. If alphas can have mistresses, omegas can have heat partners.

“No,” Mortimer says. “I lived alone, before I met you. I’ve always been alone.”

He sounds sad, almost. Johann wants to nuzzle against his neck and wrap him in his arms until the sadness leaves him and there is nothing but the luscious scent of chocolate and spice. 

He digs his nails further into his palm and tries not to breathe deeply. He says, “How long do your heats typically take?”

“Seven days,” Mortimer says, still a physician even in the throes of debilitating heat. “Sometimes less, but rarely more.” He stills then, and tilts his head. It’s not a true showing of his neck, due to the blanket wound haphazardly around him, but it indicates far more comfort with Johann’s presence that Johann expected. “Are you well?”

“I am.”

Mortimer makes a soft sound, almost like he wants to call Johann a liar but decided against it at the last minute. “You should sleep in your own bed. It can’t be good for your back to sleep in the chair.”

Despite himself, Johann has to smile. Fussy and kind as always, that’s Mortimer. “I can recover and rest when you do,” he tells Mortimer. “But for now, I wish to corral my alpha instincts where possible. It is . . . easier to give into the temptation to guard you.”

He does not say which temptation he is forestalling by indulging in his protective desires, but Mortimer swallows and seems to understand. He nods meekly, like a shy little fawn, and picks up the jug. Then he withdraws back to his room, with only the mildest rebuke to please get some rest and eat some food and take a bath for god’s sake.

Johann makes sure that the front door is securely barred, and piles a few chairs in front of it for good measure.

Then he goes to bathe.

* * *

Johann does not intend to indulge in his base desires during his bath. He intends only to scrub the grime and sweat from his skin, using the soaps and perfumes Mortimer does in order to lessen the edge of his alpha scent. He’s sure that Mortimer is far more sensitive to his pheromones right now, and given that Johann is practically a few steps away from Mortimer, he’s sure his own body is working overtime to appeal to Mortimer even if he has no intention of bedding him.

But Mortimer’s perfumes remind him of Mortimer’s scent, and Mortimer’s scent reminds him of Mortimer’s voice, and Mortimer’s voice reminds him of Mortimer, standing in the doorway, a vision of bare skin and sweat-drenched curls and smooth, unmarked throat, and well.

He sinks down into the bath, gliding his hands along, and tries to muffle his sounds against his arm as he gives in to this one, small, tiny temptation.

He imagines Mortimer, the blanket stripped away, tucked into a soft nest, bathed in sunlight or moonlight. He imagines Mortimer purring for him, eyes gone gold with the throes of heat, legs and arms spread to welcome Johann in, smelling and tasting finer than the finest dishes Johann had eaten at the king’s table. He imagines Mortimer whining and moaning and begging for him, Mortimer’s skin bruised from Johann’s bites and Johann’s fingers, Mortimer’s legs wound tight around his back urging him on. He imagines Mortimer smelling like him, and him smelling like Mortimer. He imagines Mortimer weak and limp from orgasm, curled into Johann’s arms and smelling beautifully, utterly content. 

And when he imagines Mortimer pregnant, alight with joy and heavily rounded with his child, well.

Johann scrubs the bath out, afterwards. 

Twice.

* * *

The fifth day passes, and then the sixth, and then the seventh. Mortimer stops emerging, even for water. Johann never stops watching.

The heat scent grows strong, deeper, richer. 

Johann runs out of peppermint cream.

* * *

On the eighth day, Johann wakes up from where he is slumped in the chair to a heavy weight dropping into his lap. The weight is warm and trembling and, when Johann instinctively clutches at it, smells utterly intoxicating.

Johann looks up, and swallows hard.

Mortimer is on his lap. His eyes are blown wide open, gold through and through, an omega lost to the throes of heat. He’s naked as the day he was born, skin hotter than any fire, slick staining Johann’s clothes. He leans forward and nuzzles at Johann’s neck, purring like an engine.

It takes Johann three times to find his voice. “Mortimer,” he rasps finally.

Mortimer licks at his neck, tiny kitten licks. “Johann,” he purrs.

“Mortimer, this is not – ”

“You promised you wouldn’t hurt me,” Mortimer says, distantly, as if it takes great effort to concentrate. “I am hurting now.”

Johann grips the chair very, very tightly. He can’t help the way he trembles when Mortimer wriggles on his lap, but he looks to the ceiling and tries not to breathe through his nose. He shuts his eyes tight. “Mortimer. You cannot possibly – this is improper.”

“Omegas take heat partners.”

“I am . . . not suitable.”

Mortimer rumbles, displeased. He licks at Johann’s neck again, rubbing his cheek against Johann’s shoulder like he’s scenting him. 

As if they are bonded.

“You smell suitable,” Mortimer says dreamily. “You smell _strong_.”

“I – ”

Mortimer pulls back and pouts at him. It’s adorable. It’s arousing. “Do you not find me pleasing, Johann?”

Johann tries not to look at him, but he loses that battle the same way he lost the battle in the bath. He looks at Mortimer’s beautiful face, his golden eyes, his body shining with sweat, and can only weakly say, “You are . . . very pleasing.”

“Then join me in my bed,” Mortimer coaxes.

Johann says, “The last person who asked me that . . . did not meet a kind fate.”

If Mortimer had been fully in control, Johann knows he would have demurred, lowered his eyes, not pushed. But Mortimer is in heat, and his higher logic is shelved behind his desire to mate and mount and breed, so he gives a little trill and leans in close again, undulating against Johann’s body that some wild sea siren come to tempt him into the sea to drown. 

“You won’t hurt me,” Mortimer says again. “You’ll protect me.”

Bitterness wells up in Johann, like ash and blood, burned dreams and a Queen’s screams, slick blood and a tiny cell. He wants to say that he does not deserve Mortimer. He wants to say that he would live forever at Mortimer’s feet, if he wanted. He does not know what he wants to do, anymore.

Mortimer seems to know his struggle. He nudges Johann’s cheek with his own, affectionate, forgiving, gentle, a balm against the hurtful thoughts and a guardian against the darker ones. “We all deserve second chances, don’t we?”

And, well, Johann has something to say to that.

He swallows hard, and takes Mortimer’s hand, and steps into a room soaked with light and perfume and prays, just for once, that he is worth it.

* * *

Johann loses track of time, locked in Mortimer’s room and cocooned into Mortimer’s nest. He spends hours or days or weeks there, licking the ambrosia of slick out of Mortimer as he cries and moans and whimpers. He sinks his teeth into Mortimer, quelling the rabid rage that comes with heat, and protects Mortimer’s vulnerable body when he sleeps. They trade kisses and food and water like the finest wine. 

The first time Johann knots Mortimer, it’s like benediction, like forgiveness, like mercy. 

The second time, it’s like paradise, like coming home, like finding his other half.

The third time, he gives into the rut boiling and bubbling under his skin, and then they are little better than feral animals, growling and snarling and yelling loud enough to alarm neighbors, tearing blankets and ripping sheets, bruising and biting and clawing. Sometimes Johann puts Mortimer on his belly and slides inside and teases him until he cries and begs for mercy. Sometimes Mortimer pins Johann’s hands to the bed and bites at his neck until he yields and teases him until his knot is so swollen every little movement hurts. And sometimes they just lie there, exhausted and content, legs wrapped around each other, rocking together like waves against a boat, scenting until Johann is not sure where he ends and Mortimer begins.

They make love as the sun rises and falls and the moon ascends and descends, and Johann is, for once, utterly content.

* * *

When their heat and rut finally are sated, they sleep in, exhausted and aching and bruised to hell. Johann wakes first, and it’s easy and instinctive to nuzzle against Mortimer’s shoulder, to kiss his neck, to draw him close and scent him.

When Mortimer wakes, he smiles at Johann through bleary eyes and reaches up with one hand to stroke his long hair. He kisses Johann like it’s natural, purrs for him, even spreads his legs with a wink and coy smile when he realizes their legs are still entangled.

And Johann thinks, _I love you_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Next up, there's a revelation, some angst, and a happy ending.
> 
> Also apologies for the random Game of Thrones reference but there's only so many synonyms for "winter" when I want Mortimer to drag Johann to the tailor's to buy a thick winter coat.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a revelation, some angst, and a happy ending.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my contribution to [#RareMeat Mortimer Week!](https://twitter.com/RareMeat_/status/1327592111722606593)

Mortimer takes a week to rest, after his heat. He is very, very drained; Johann finds that Mortimer can barely walk, hardly eat, and even the simple act of purring can leave him lapsing into exhausted sleep.

Yet he still welcomes Johann close. He reaches for him, whines for him, clutches him like he thinks he’ll leave. 

Johann, still in the throes of his newfound love, does not protest. He brings Mortimer food and water, he bathes Mortimer with gentle hands, and at night he curls up with Mortimer in his nest and kisses him until they fall asleep. It’s like the entire world has gone still, leaving them in a bubble where they can just _be_ , and it’s more soothing than Johann can ever admit.

He even takes some of his clothing to the nest, because Mortimer insists.

“I would think you had enough blankets,” Johann teases him, watching as Mortimer tucks his shirt firmly in, smoothing it out like he’s building a concrete wall and fixing flaws only he can see. “Your nest is beautiful already.”

“And now,” Mortimer tells him, face creased in concentration, “it is our nest, and what I had was not sufficient.”

The shirt properly integrated into the nest, Mortimer leans back with a sigh and rolls around a little bit. He wears nothing but a worn set of shirts and underthings, but his skin is still peppered with Johann’s bites and bruises, and he is the most beautiful thing Johann has ever seen, especially when he gives a satisfied smile at his nest.

Their nest.

Mortimer tilts his head, barring his lovely throat, and smiles at him. “Well? Are you not joining me?”

Johann sheds his shirt and climbs inside and kisses him, just because he can.

* * *

When Mortimer is fully recovered, Johann knows it because he awakens to an empty nest. The room still smells strongly of them – alpha and omega, heat and rut, bliss and pleasure and joy – so Johann is not alarmed by the disappearance of his lovely omega. Mortimer has always been the early riser, after all.

He stretches and dozes for a little while, and then he goes to take a bath. He’s loathe to scrub away Mortimer’s scent, but Mortimer has not let Johann return to his bedroom to sleep, and he appeases himself with the thought of slipping back into the nest tonight, a place where they can always smell of each other. It makes the bath tolerable, as does finally feeling clean of sweat and dried blood where Mortimer had set teeth to skin and vented his frustration or displeasure when Johann took too long to obey his commands.

At least the marks cannot be so easily washed away, and Johann wears them with pride. A strong and fierce omega is a source of nothing but joy, after all.

When he has dried and dressed himself, he follows his nose to the kitchen and finds that scattered remnants of Mortimer’s breakfast. With his heat gone and the burning, aching need to be mounted by an alpha satisfied, his other bodily needs had clearly asserted themselves; Johann finds their cupboards and larder scraped almost bare, a strange mixture of crumbs scattered on various plates, and enough cups to quench the thirst of an army. Johann sighs, but he can do nothing but begin the arduous task of cleaning up, as Mortimer is not here to scold. 

And besides, why scold Mortimer for doing exactly what Johann would have insisted upon?

Johann dutifully washes the plates, restores some semblance of order to the larder, and begins making them lunch out of what is left. It restores some sense of normalcy, even if normally this ritual involves Mortimer reading books at the table or jotting down notes in his messy handwriting.

Still, Johann is pleased when he hears the keys rattle in the lock just as he begins plating the food. He finishes scooping out a generous portion of the meat stew for Mortimer before he wipes his hands and goes to answer the door.

Mortimer practically bounces over the threshold, pink cheeked and eyes bright. He bypasses the coat rack in favor of heading straight for Johann; Johann barely gets his arms up in time to fold his beloved inside.

Mortimer smells of the crisp winter breeze and dusty offices, and underneath that, notes of his sweet heat scent still linger. Johann lowers his head and rubs his cheek against Mortimer, pleased beyond words when a soft purr leaves Mortimer’s throat, an unmistakable sign of pleasure and trust. Omegas do not purr for just anyone, after all.

“I see you have recovered and resumed your rising with the dawn,” Johann tells him, once they have scented each other to their mutual satisfaction.

“It’s lovely outside, and the sun is so bright. Of course I did,” Mortimer says airily. “And I see you made us a lovely lunch.”

Johann helps Mortimer out of his coat, raising an eyebrow at the suit underneath. Normally, Mortimer prefers less formal clothing for errands, and inside their house, he likes to wander about in thick, well-loved sweaters. “Did you go to the office?” he asks, moving to hang the coat up before Mortimer distracts him and it ends up gathering dust and dirt on the floor.

A shake of Mortimer’s head sends curls tumbling to and fro; Johann has to drag his eyes away from the display to focus upon Mortimer’s words.

“No,” Mortimer is saying, settling into a chair and digging into the soup with gusto, still beaming. “I had business elsewhere. But I did run into several people, and my goodness, the stories they have to tell. Did you know – ”

Johann obligingly drops into the seat next to Mortimer. He’s much more sociable than Johann, so it makes that he stops to chat with every soul he runs into whenever he goes out. 

It doesn’t mean Johann has to like it, but then again, Mortimer went outside bearing his scent and his bites. It’s enough.

They consume most of the stew as Mortimer chatters on about all the gossip he’s picked up. Most of it means little to Johann – gentleman getting married, ladies flirting with men, dowries and presentations and Parliament. But Mortimer comes alive when he speaks, no matter what he speaks about; Johann would happily listen to him babble for days about fish, it would make Mortimer glow like this.

He does, however, at one point catch his beloved’s hand and press a kiss to it, mainly because it makes Mortimer stutter to a stop and stare at him.

“Mortimer, pray spare some of your breath to eat,” Johann tells him. “You have ten days of heat to make up for.”

“You certainly insisted on feeding me during the heat.”

“You and I both know it was not enough.”

Mortimer narrows his eyes at him. “You’re going to be the fussy kind of attentive alpha, aren’t you?”

The words mean little to Johann – he has always been a more attentive alpha, because what use was an alpha that did not care? Omegas are natural nurturers, but Johann learned a long time ago that alphas can nurture too. As alphas can be weak and foolish and ill, omegas can be strong and wise and kind; as omegas can kill, alphas can nurture. His nurturing instincts served him well as a physician, anyways.

But the tone in which Mortimer says those words, fond and accepting and . . . 

And loving.

Johann doesn’t even realize that he’s frozen until Mortimer’s hands touch his face. Warm, beautiful hands, and Johann looks up to see a warm, beautiful face hovering above his. Mortimer makes a soft sound and settles atop his lap, confident and kind as always, and wipes away tears Johann didn’t even know he was shedding.

“I don’t mind,” Mortimer says quietly. “I’ve never minded. You don’t mind me, do you?”

Johann thinks back to Mortimer’s spine of steel as he faced down an angry alpha; to his kindness at sparing an alpha condemned to a slow death; to his cheeky attempts to drag Johann outside to interact with the world. How could he ever have minded Mortimer?

“No,” he says, curling his hands around Mortimer’s waist. “I never have.”

Mortimer’s eyes soften, and he leans down and kisses Johann, as if they haven’t seen each other for ten years instead of ten minutes. So close to the close of heat, the scent of Mortimer trickling into his nose, tinged with the edge of slick, makes Johann’s blood burn hot.

Mortimer laughs at him, when he pulls away. “There you are,” he teases. “I like you confident. Come and get me, will you?”

* * *

They do make it to the bed, but it’s a very close call.

* * *

Afterwards, Mortimer wriggles on top of him, possessive and lithe, slipping his leg between Johann’s and settling half his weight onto Johann’s chest. Johann bears it without complaint, even when Mortimer tugs at the hair on his chest, but he does pull a little bit on Mortimer’s curls because he can.

“Ow,” Mortimer says, shaking him off like an indignant unbroken colt. “That hurts.”

“So does this,” Johann says archly, and presses Mortimer’s hand down flat to his chest before he pulls any hairs out. “Be still. How do you still have energy after that?”

Mortimer shrugs. “I’m next to a lovely alpha who smells quite wonderful,” he notes, nuzzling into Johann’s neck. “It’s quite . . . invigorating.”

Johann tilts his head, to give Mortimer better access, and sighs. “You will be the death of me.”

“Nonsense, if I’m too much, I can finally get you to learn how to use my invention,” Mortimer says dismissively. “That way you and I can work together.”

“No one in the Service can formally work.”

Normally, Mortimer would reply with some pithy, withering comment about how Johann’s Service will end soon and how Mortimer will insist on helping him, but now there is only silence. Strangely embarrassed silence, at that; Johann can taste the vaguest tint of discomfort creeping into Mortimer’s lovely honeyed scent. When he levers his head up, frowning, he finds that Mortimer is staring at the bed and flushing, cheeks as pink as they were when he came in from the cold.

“Mortimer?” Johann prompts.

Mortimer’s fingers twitch under Johann’s palm; the little sparks of pleasure-pain make him shiver against Mortimer. The movement of him against Mortimer seems to wake Mortimer out of whatever daze he was in, because his eyes come sharply into focus and land upon Johann again.

That sense of embarrassment, however, does not fade.

Mortimer raises himself up on one elbow, curls falling over his shoulder. He clears his throat. “Um,” he says eloquently. “You might . . . no longer be bound in Service?”

Johann stares at him. 

Mortimer turns a deeper pink.

Johann takes a deep breath, feeling as if the world is spinning underneath him, and unconsciously tugs Mortimer closer. “What . . . what do you mean?”

“I said . . . I had business.”

“But I . . . I’ve barely served you for half a year. It cannot possibly be – ”

Mortimer does a little half shrug, making the bed bounce a little. “Alphas so rarely enter the Service for anything but labor,” he says. “And a physician’s wages are far higher than a laborer. Your work for me was more than equal to what was necessary to buy out the remainder of your contract. You committed no crime on English shores, after all, so there was no reason to charge any . . . exorbitant fee. You are – You are free, Johann.”

Such a small world, and yet it changes Johann’s entire world yet again. Somehow he manages to stumble out of bed and stagger to the jug of water he’d left for Mortimer during heat; he pours some in his hand and splashes it against his face, breathing heavily against the shock of ice cold water.

Free.

He’s free.

He can go where he pleases, he can do what he likes, he can mate whomever he desires.

He is _free_.

And this fiery little creature is the reason he is free after hardly half a year of labor, and not even hard labor to begin with.

“Johann?”

A hesitant hand touches his back, and Johann does not remember reacting, but his knees hit the floor with a heavy thud as Mortimer pulls him around to face him. He bows over Mortimer’s hands and kisses his savior, his omega, his beloved.

“Mortimer,” he rasps. “I swear, I will repay you.”

“Johann, I did not – ”

“I will – I will serve you unto death, you will never want for anything, and no one will _ever_ hurt you,” Johann vows. 

But instead of smelling the tint of joy and happiness that he has become so used to in Mortimer’s scent, instead his nose picks up threads of alarm, confusion, concern.

Fear.

When he lifts his head, Mortimer looks still as stone. Mortimer says, “Johann, please – please get up. I did not . . . I did not free you to _serve_ me. I just. I wanted you to be free. That is all.”

It seems to be distressing Mortimer greatly that he remains kneeling, even though it never distressed those far less worthy of his service, like the King, so Johann pushes himself upright. “But this is what you deserve,” he says. “This is what . . . I am made for.”

After all, is it not the fate of alphas to serve omegas?

Mortimer looks even more distressed at that, if possible. He hugs himself, like he’s grown cold, and says desperately, “But I do not want you to serve me just because that is what you’re made for. I want you to be happy. I want you to – to find your own place, or have your own practice, or be your own person, I – I want you to be free, Johann. Freedom is what you deserve.”

The happy flame that has burned since Mortimer took him into his bed is abruptly extinguished at those words; Johann feels at once as if he has aged a thousand years. His back hurts, his knees ache, and his hands tremble. He feels more hurt than when they whipped him in the prison.

“You do not want me here?”

“No, I. No,” Mortimer says, swallowing harshly. “No.”

The embers grow cold in the hearth of Johann’s mind. He cannot imagine that he was so foolish – and yet, it is not so surprising. He has done foolish things before, after all.

But if Mortimer does not want him here, if he truly only wanted a heat partner, if he wanted Johann free so that he could leave, well.

Johann will not do him the disservice of lingering.

Johann bows, because that is all he can do, and says, “Then I will leave at once and find my own lodging, so that I will not impose so rudely upon you a moment longer.”

And then he bolts from the room, trying to escape before the pieces of his shattered heart leave a bloody trail on the floor.

* * *

Getting dressed and packing goes by in a blur; his hands move without any conscious input from his mind, plucking up clothes and shoes. Mortimer drifts in and out at the edges of his vision, pale as a ghost, dark and sad and silent. They do not speak a single word to each other, but when Johann marches to the door, he finds a sheaf of papers, neatly tied, on the floor right in front.

His papers of freedom.

He snatches those up, possessed of the fierce urge to burn them in the fire – but Mortimer is in front of the fire, staring at him with sad eyes, and so Johann bites his lip until it bleeds and shoulders outside into the cold, waning light of the street.

He picks a spot, and begins to walk.

* * *

Johann has no idea how long he walks for. By the time the fog of grief dissipates enough for his reason to return, his feet ache in their shoes and the bundle of papers is wrinkled in his clenched hands. He still wants to destroy them, of course, but he’s not foolish; without these papers, he would likely be thrown in prison, punished twice over for escaping, and be put to death.

With a great sigh, he pauses under the nearest street lamp to unfold them and begin reading. Sometimes the end of Service comes with conditions, depending on the crime; Johann knows he might be barred from leaving the country, or taking up certain positions.

Most of the contract is bland and useless, so Johann flips to the back. There, to his astonishment, he finds a sheet of paper covered in Mortimer’s distinctively messy handwriting. 

Because he is weak, he brings the sheet to his nose and scents it. It smells of fresh bread and honey; Mortimer must have just finished his heat when he wrote this.

He imagines Mortimer writing this, face wrinkled with concertation, tongue sticking out, legs swinging under his desk, and the smile comes without thinking. He tucks the rest of the bland papers in his satchel and holds up Mortimer’s sheet to the light and begins to read.

Most of it is as bland as the rest, affirming that Johann was purchased on this date at this location from this auction by one Dr. Mortimer Granville. It also affirms that he has served Mortimer since, in whatever capacity Mortimer needed him. It makes an ugly wrinkle in his stomach, to read those words, but he pushes past the queasiness and he keeps going.

Mortimer goes on to write that Johann is an exemplary alpha, a good man who fell into hard times, an excellent physician who has much to contribute, and a kind and attentive alpha that will surely do much for London’s scene as an eligible bachelor.

It’s a little dramatic, but then again, so is Mortimer.

Then he reads the last few lines, and freezes. Mortimer writes: _Whatever Johann Struensee decides to do, it will surely benefit all of us if he is freed from the chains of Service. I vouch for him wholeheartedly: his character, his mind, and his soul. And I will stand proudly behind whatever decision he makes for his future, for he has earned that right. He is welcome to remain with me until he finds proper lodging and employment, or even longer; I have long been in want of a fellow physician and a partner._

Johann presses a finger there, on the word _partner_. It can mean many things, of course, but Mortimer had already called him a fellow physician and – 

And he had said he was willing to let Johann stay with him.

And he vouched for him.

And he said that he would stand by whatever Johann decided to do.

Johann already knows what he wants to do with his future. He creases the paper in half, tucking it into his coat, spins on his feet, and begins to run.

Hope is a fragile, time sensitive thing, after all.

* * *

The door is not locked, when Johann finally reaches the street, out of breath and chilled to the bone. It makes him scowl, but he locks it firmly behind him and scents the air, pleased that he can only smell Mortimer and no intruder.

He does not find Mortimer in the kitchen, or the bathroom, but when he pushes open the door to the study, he finds Mortimer there, buried in a pile of books, perched on the one free chair in the entire study, a large decanter of wine before him, eyes red and shirt utterly disheveled. He looks like he has been sitting there for hours and hasn’t moved.

He _smells_ like he has been sitting there for hours and hasn’t moved.

Johann is filled with a great tenderness at the sight of him; he would have happily remained in Service for Mortimer all of his life, but if Mortimer is going to offer him the chance to decide what he wants to do with his life, he will take that chance with an open heart and eager hands.

He strides forward, ignoring Mortimer’s startled flinch, and drops to his knees at Mortimer’s feet.

“Johann – ”

“I read your testimony. In my defense. You were rather . . . ardent that I get to decide what to do with my freedom.”

“Yes, but I don’t want you to just – ” Mortimer makes a little sound in his throat, like a cat whose tail has been stepped on, disgruntled and irritated. “You can’t just choose me.”

“Why not?”

“I’m all you’ve known. Surely, there is a better place for you – ”

Johann takes one of Mortimer’s hands, those beautiful, clever, warm hands, and kisses the palm of it. “No. I know there is no better place for me than here.”

“Johann, you deserve so much more.”

Johann looks up and smiles. He says, “All my life, I have served so many unwilling men. Foolish men. Silly men. Men would starts wars over a misstep or insult; men who would send a woman’s husband to his death to drag her to his bed; men who would gorge themselves on finest feasts while their people starved. And then I served you, and I know now that you are the better path. You are the best man I have ever known. So, if I get to make the decision about what comes next, then I choose you. I would rather serve you in this tiny house and that tiny clinic than the largest palaces in the world.”

“I can’t give you anything,” Mortimer frets, wretched and dismayed as Johann has never seen him.

“You gave me everything,” Johan says, because Mortimer deserves the truth. After all, he had spoken it first, in the papers he used to buy Johann’s freedom. “You gave me a warm home, and a good place of employment, and food and clothes and baths. You gave me love. I would take that love over the riches of the earth.”

“I did not – pardon me?”

“I love you,” Johann breathes out, feeling each word leave him like a piece of his soul. “I love you, Mortimer Granville. And I will serve you out of love until I die. Will you let me?”

For a long moment, there is only crackling of the fire, and racing beat of Johann’s heart, and the shallow breaths of Mortimer.

And then there are two more thuds, and Mortimer’s hands grip his just as tightly as grips them, and Johann looks up just in time for Mortimer to lean forward and kiss him again. It’s not the same as the kisses before; there is no burning drive of heat, no taunting promise of smooth skin, no sigh of relief after a successful mounting.

Just a question, and a promise.

Johann kisses back.

When the kiss ends, Mortimer does not pull away. Against Johann’s lips, he breathes, so softly Johann can barely hear him, “I love you too. I just. I wanted you to choose me because you wanted to. Not because you had to.”

“Of course I have to,” Johann tells him. “You’re mine, and I am yours. I was meant to serve you. As all alphas are meant to serve omegas.”

“That’s such an old-fashioned, ridiculous belief.”

“Would you rather I slide a jeweled ring upon your finger and kiss that instead?”

“No, I would rather you take me to bed.”

“That can be easily arranged,” Johann says, because all of the aches and pains have vanished from him down, drowned out by the flood of joy and heat and love. He lifts Mortimer to his feet and kisses him again, because he can, and finds that he cannot stop kissing him. He kisses him until they are both dizzy and breathless and laughing helplessly.

“I suppose these dusty old tomes have seen worse,” Mortimer says, and shoots Johann a sly glance. “Do you think the table can survive us?”

And, well, with an invitation for a second chance like that, how can Johann refuse?

FINIS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: And that's all, folks! Johann & Mortimer live a long and happy life together practicing their unusual treatments. 
> 
> If you enjoyed this, please go and check out the rest of the works for both Johann and Mortimer Week in the Monthly RareMeat Collection! I'm so happy they were in the same year so I could indulge my plot bunny for both at the same time.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me @ Telegram/Discord as TheSilverQueen : [Pillowfort as TheSilverQueen](https://www.pillowfort.social/thesilverqueen) : [Tumblr as thesilverqueenlady](http://thesilverqueenlady.tumblr.com) : [Twitter as silverqueenlady](https://twitter.com/silverqueenlady) : [NewTumbl as thesilverqueen](https://thesilverqueen.newtumbl.com/) : [Dreamwidth as thesilverqueenlady](https://thesilverqueenlady.dreamwidth.org/)


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